


On The New Sofa

by smoth



Series: Executive escapism (Troffy AU) [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: AU where Chris is a PT and Smith is a designer, Blowjobs, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoth/pseuds/smoth
Summary: Two very good friends, their bodies, and erotica.





	On The New Sofa

It's just past midnight on a lazy weekend, and they're on Smith's new corner sofa. It was a good find, as far as Black Friday sales went; charcoal grey, plush cushions. Many would advise against having a sofa facing away from the ceiling to floor windows that took up 3/4s of Smith's lavish living room, but he liked to take risks with his design ideas. It was what got him so far in the design industry, after all, and he wasn't going to let his own personal style falter just because he wasn't being commissioned by himself. 

The room is barely lit, but it is comfortable. A tall standing lamp in the corner, beside the towering Elephant ear plant, gives the room a slightly artificial light, and it casts over the two figures in the corner. The only noises audible throughout the room are occasional words from either of the two men, or a particularly high note from the music playing from the little Bluetooth speaker on the coffee table. 

Trott is laid on his stomach, vision only a little hazy with wine, and he's resting his cheek on Smith's hip, eyes closed. He's still got leftover smudges of blue eyeliner on his lower lashline, and stray flecks of lustre on the cheekbone pointing upwards. Smith has a hand in the shorter's hair, very slowly petting through it, humming slowly to the song. 

“I'm thinking of going another colour, before Christmas.” Trott says, very quietly. He doesn't have to raise his voice, not at this time of night, not in here. Smith hums. 

“Something bright, or?” Smith shifted a little, trying to stretch out his stomach. It was Trott's pillow, after all, but the way a button from his flannel was poking into the soft of his navel wasn't very comfortable. 

Trott gave a little laugh. “Do you remember the bright red?” He opened his eyes, moving so his chin rested above Smith's belt. “I looked awful.” 

“You looked like you were going to start a band.” The designer grumbled. He looked at the eyeliner under his companion's eyes, and brushed over his cheek with a thumb. “What about this blue? It's a cool enough tone.” 

The shorter pouted. “Never thought of blue.”

Smith carries on brushing his thumb over Trott's cheek until he has the pad of his thumb on the man's lower lip. Trott still talks. “Would you go with me to get it done? It's that nice place that serves the coffees.” 

“They do pastries, too. So yes.” The taller grins. “And I get to see you looking like a bald ferret.” 

“You need to cut down on the pastries, Smith.” Trott pats Smith's stomach, and it dips a little. 

Smith fakes shock, and lifts his hand to his face in horror. “Are you calling me unhealthy, Trott? Guh!” He wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “And I thought you liked using me as a pillow…” 

Trott just laughs, deep in his chest, and tugs Smith's shirt out of his belt. He smooths his hand over the short trail of light fuzz there, traces the indent where a button was pressed too hard against his skin. He begins unbuttoning, going up. 

Smith makes an interested noise, but still manages a faux sniffle, because he likes where this seems to be going. 

“I _do_ like using you as a pillow, mate. And you aren't unhealthy, but you aren't healthy, either.” 

Before Trott even finishes his sentence, Smith is 'weeping’ once more. Trott just giggles again, kisses his navel. 

“Fucking- Smith, come on.” 

“We can't all be sculpted personal trainers, Trott!” Smith gestures to the shorter's body vaguely. He's grinning, of course; they've been down this road many times. Trott enjoyed pistachios and pre-made bland lunches, and Smith liked the bakery around the corner, and wine. Trott also had a share in the gym he worked at. Smith designed it's lobby. 

“I,” Trott can't stifle his snigger, “I know.” 

He flicks open the final button of Smith's flannel, up by his collarbones, and glances up the length of his torso. Trott is at eye level now, and Smith cups his cheek again. 

They look at each other for a minute, just trying not to laugh. The Pixies play softly behind them. 

Smith looks over Trott's shoulder for a moment, grateful, and the shorter clicks his tongue. 

“Mate... Look at me.” He winks once their eyes meet, smiling, and leans in, to kiss him. 

To give him credit, Trott knows that Smith tries with his appearance. His strong suit is architecture and interior design, but that didn't mean he didn't give anything to his personal appearance. He wore suits, he took care of himself. His current joke was that he was stocking up for winter, and preparing his body for his family's Christmas dinner. The Smith family was a large one, and they were all foodies. Trott also knows that Smith is doing much better than he used to; he does home workouts, doesn’t completely disregard Trott’s advice like he used to, and it paid off. 

He runs his hands over Smith's abdomen as they kiss, lips mashing together only a little slickly. Smith exhales rather heavily, and Trott digs his fingers in, kneading his stomach. The ginger lets out a shaky breath and a low, little noise.

Trott pulls away with a smirk, then makes his way back down to Smith's stomach, and drags his plush lips over the little ladder of hair, though he stops right at the line of his jeans. 

“I like how lithe I am, compared to you,” Trott muses as he works at Smith’s belt, making quick work of it. “Something about it is nice. I don't know what.” 

“Mmh.” Smith squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. 

Trott slides his hand into the taller's jeans and palms his hardening cock through his underwear. “Christ, Smith.” 

“Tr- Mate.” Smith grumbled, fighting to contain the whimpers that spilled from his throat. 

“Yeah?” Trott props his elbow up on the taller's hip so he can cushion his cheek against his palm, his other hand still working Smith over. He exhales a little laugh when Smith doesn't answer at all, and coaxes his friend's hips up so he can pull the man's jeans and underwear down enough for his cock to spring free.

Smith lets out a groan that borders on becoming a shout, drowning out the low tones of whatever song was playing, and recieving a sweet smile from the shorter man, who curls his long fingers around Smith's shaft. Trott stroked a few times, gaze flickering from each twitch on his friend's face. 

“You're too adorable, I swear.” Trott coos, planting a final kiss on the taller's navel, swiping his tongue over his lips, then sinks his mouth over the head of Smith's throbbing cock. It’s thick, stretches his mouth wide, and he takes his time.

“Oh my God, Trott- Chriiiis.” The younger man flings his hand up to his mouth to cover his ramblings, but ends up just biting down on his thumb, letting out a long “Mmmmmph.” 

Trott hums his approval at the reaction, then sinks his mouth a little lower, strokes what he can’t reach with his hand.

Smith’s mouth goes a mile a minute the whole time that Trott is down there. He wants to tell Trott how good he looks there, how he has a real talent for taking cock, maybe even that he's missed this so much (if he was feeling particularly brave), but all that comes out is garbled moans and it leaves a wet slobber on his thumb. 

Trott has been listening the whole time, and can’t help pulling off to laugh. “You have a lot to say.”

Smith doesn't take his mouth away from his hand, and just hums; “Mm-hmm!”

Trott chuckles to himself, then takes the cock into his mouth once again, going a little deeper this time, doing his best to relax his throat as he goes. The younger's hand drops to his chest, and then the babble gets more intense, and Trott knows Smith must be getting close. He cups the taller's hips, squeezes them.

And Smith doesn’t last long after that. His hands fly down to hold Trott's head down as he spills down Trott's throat, and throws his own head back with a gasp, arching his back and thrusting into the tight confine of Trott's throat. 

Smith lets his hand drop from his friend's head, and his back slumps down to the sofa cushions once more. 

“Jesus.” Trott swallows, hiding his mouth behind his hand so he can cough, and lick his lips. When he focuses on Smith again, he is boneless and limp, cheeks flushed and panting, still half-hard against his thigh.

“You…” Smith tries to speak, then gives up. “I don't even know how you do that.”

“How do I suck dick? Do I need to teach you, an adult gay man, how to do that?” 

The taller scoffs. “No- just, so fucking _well_. You have to practice or something.” 

Trott smirks, standing up and bending over to turn off the barely-present music. “Who's saying I haven't been? I've been hooking up with the new lifeguard a lot.” 

“You athletes.” Smith waves a tired hand, leans forward to steady himself enough to stand. He can barely feel his legs. “Like rabbits, the lot of you. But you'll have to tell me about him, Trott. Give me all the details.” 

The shorter laughs, offers a hand to Smith to haul him onto his wobbling feet. “Sure thing mate, even have a colour chart of his asshole for you. I can show you in the morning.” They both stand, Smith's jeans around his pink knees, Trott's smile wide. “Bed, right now, though.” 

“Don't tell me you're wanting more dick, mate, I might die.” Smith pads his way over to the door leading to his hallway. 

“I want to _sleep_ , Smith, I have work tomorrow.” 

The taller calls from the bathroom, “And dick, Trott, and dick. You always want my dick, in my bed.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Trott smirks, flicking the light out, and closing the door behind him. “Maybe.”


End file.
